Closet Farming

Paco and I have decided to come out.  "Our names are Madhadder and Paco, and we own a farm."  It all started so innocently--a 1924 farmhome in need of a caretaker and 8 acres that cried, "FARM ME, SEYMOUR!"  At first we were just mowing and fighting dandelions.  Then we got into the hard stuff--gardening, outbuilding repair, landscaping, and rhubarb.  Before we knew it, we were asparagus users, llama owners, and even started dipping garlic.  From there it was a short freefall into raspberries and hostas.  A tractor soon followed, and when our resistance was completely down--a 4-wheeler.  I kept thinking that a rope swing would keep Paco from succumbing to the habit, but no, once his hands were dirtied by the taint of his own land, he sunk into the mire.  Our parole officer has said that chickens would be the worst possible therapy, but the admonition may have fallen on deaf ears.  We see no out.  The addition of 11 alpacas seemed to designate the inevitable Point of No Return.  All that really remains to be done is to add our warning for the collective good of society.  Please know that we're seeking help.  And for the love of all that we hold dear, be ever vigilent in watching your own children for tell-tale signs...

A Horse is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course...

(Spoiler alert:  This post may tread on some toes.  In the event that it does, please let that not be the end of our conversation together.  I love a good debate!!)

My abrupt nocturnal awakenings appear to be directly related to the general state of my mind.  In other words, you can trace my recent week of sleeplessness to a recent thrashing I have taken for a book I confidently placed in the hands of my 7th graders--a whole class of 29--bright kids for the most part--readers but for a small handful.  Give yourself 5 "I DONE Good!" points if you can guess from the post title the name of the book.  Scroll back and look if you must.  I'll wait.  And then the fun will begin!

 In the attempt to expose adolescent readers to more non-fiction (a task no less daunting than trying to change adolescents' eating habits), I purchased 25 copies of Seabiscuit, using up the last crumbs of my budget, throwing in some money of my own, adding my personal battered copy to the mix, and gleaning the library.  Not unpassionately did I enter this project.  I love the book and passed it out with much gusto and the promise that the kids would also love it.  My intro was met with groans which I ignored.  Then I watched the transformation.  About 7 chapters into the book the majority "hit a vein" and devoured the book.  Enter (the day before the book was to be completed) two mothers who (to put it mildly) did not carry my same devotion to this book about a quirky, "undersized, knobby-kneed,^[1] and given to sleeping and eating for long periods" horse who caught the heart and spirit of a depression era country--one of the greatest animal stories ever told.  They found the language offensive (I admit there was nary an English nanny in the entire book) and couldn't believe I would assign a book of such quality.  And therein began my sleeplessness.

My response has been to apologize profusely to the mothers and my entire class for esposing them to the language in the book.  Oh, and that undescribed reference to prostituion in the chapter about horseracing in Mexico.  But what to do with 25 copies of the book?  Wite-Out?  A bonfire?  Amazon.com resale?  A closet?  Razor blades?  Do we throw the whole baby out because she peed in the bathwater?  Help me out here.  What do you think?

Conclusions (which you DO reach eventually if you cogitate long enough about anything):  I will defend forever your right to read something.  I will defend the inestimable value of this book.  OH, YES!!!  OH, YES!!!!  Let there be NO mistake.  I DO NOT believe in whitewashing the world.  I DO believe it is our God-given duty to help each other navigate responsibly through this world.  I DO believe we are what we read.  Mealy mouthed books make for mealy-mouthed people.  I DO believe that many words of the vernacular of the day are unacceptable.  I do NOT use them.  I DO believe bad, shallow writing without offensive words is way way way way more damaging to my spirit than good good writing about the best of human values sprinkled with a few offensive words. Etc. Etc. Etc. Getting down off my soapbox.

My very articulate and bright students (for the most part) in this class joined me in a spirited discussion about censorship which was obviously prompted by the reading of this book.  As for Seabiscuit, they suggested perhaps a parent's permission slip  giving the go ahead.  They  suggested I could read it aloud and add my own censoring. Both workable solutions.

I found this quote which makes sense: "When middle school parents challenge books, it's often a last gasp to stay involved," says Camille Powell, a Houston area school librarian whose BookMoot website is a go-to destination for educators and kid lit aficionados. "Elementary schools are fairly responsive to parental input. However, the junior high transition years are frustrating and difficult for parents as their control over their children and the school gradually erodes."  I WILL be more careful.  And who was I to think that I could go 23 years and not get some fallout along the way?

Oh, my last note is for the horse himself:  Your legend lives on. Sleep well under your anonymous tree, Seabiscuit...wherever that is.

"Oh for a Book and a Shady Nook..."

"Diapers dragged the floor, salmonella dripped off thawing chicken breasts onto the counter and the phone rang out its throat as I eagerly read page after page of this middle-brow novel."

I found this on goodreads.com this morning. Here's hoping everyone out there has such a book absorbing their lives today!!

“Oh for a book and a shady nook,

Either indoors or out,

with the green leaves whispering overhead,

or the street cries all about.

Where I may read at all my ease

both of the new and old,

For a jolly good book whereon to look

is better to me than gold”

― John Wilson

I Was So Scared I...

I'm not sure what kids "play" when they get together these days.  I suspect it involves a joystick.  Back in the day we played cowboys and Indians, house, farm animals, night games, board games when it was cold, Lewis and Clark (that story is like mother's milk to us Idahoans), and countless other concoctions which involved streets, empty lots, canal ditches, darkness, and oftentimes fire.  I am the youngest, so frequently I was pulled along and forced to adapt or at least take a minor part.  When I was five, my particular neighborhood at the time was fiercely engaged in a dramatic role play/adventure which involved very realistic exoduses (exodi?) through vacant lots and neighboring fields in a frantic attempt to outrun and evade...communists...Russians.  Our neighbors owned a set of abandoned motel units with which we had free rein. Oftentimes, we hid there under old dusty blankets, and I remember fervently praying we would not be caught.  I don't think my 5 year old mind knew the difference between reality and play at the time, unfortunately.  When the plot of our adventure called for travel, we took off through fields, oftentimes needing to stop along the way, build a fire, and roast hard little potatoes.  They were always undercooked--black on the outside.  Two years later I entered school.  The stakes were higher now.  Not only were those same Russians stalking me in my dreams and neighborhood play, they  also were, apparently, the reason we hopped under our desks when the terrifying siren sounded in drills..  Now, when we see those pictures, we all laugh and say, "Silly People of the 50's/Early 60's!!  Radiation isn't intimidated in the least by a wood desk blockade!"  Then, in third grade, enter, the Bay of Pigs.   I didn't know it was that until years later, and I saw pictures of Kennedy in his infamous rocking chair.  Rocking and fretting.  Why did the principal keep announcing over the intercom, "In the event..."?  The fervor of the these drills intensified as history unfolded.  Fortunately the nitty gritty traumatic global historical details of the news elude most children--in America, that is--sometimes.  I don't remember anything more than a few events associated.  But I DO remember one particular day.  We were having a bus evacuation drill, or so I thought.  All of the other times, we'd heard the alarm and headed for the bus.  Roll call and back to class.  On this particular day, however, the bus was instructed to take us all home.  Mid morning.  No drill!  Bombs were surely going to be raining on us before lunch.  When I realized this was not a drill and the REAL RUSSIANS WERE COMING, I did the unthinkable as the bus exited--I wet my pants.  I was truly truly panicked.  AND I left my coat at school.  My teacher brought it to me.  Those kinds of things stick in your head.  It was about 25 years later that I came face-to-face with bona fide  Russians--my first communists.  I was working at the time in the Texas State Senate in Austin.  A convoy of Russian diplomats had come to Texas--perhaps on a goodwill tour--but it looked all the world to me to be for the purpose of shopping!!!  Each of the dozen or so gentlemen were decked out in an expensive ten gallon Stetson, jeans,cowboy boots, and a fancy leather belt with a big old Texas longhorn belt buckle.  All of the senate staff were invited into the rotunda to behold them--Texas ettiquette requires such things, I suppose.  I'm ashamed to admit that I thought to myself, "Well, I'll be. They look just like everyone else."  I don't remember any punch or cookies;  I think we just gawked, maybe clapped a little, and went back to our offices.  Someone probably made a speech.  I'm sure it was diplomatic.  One must tread lightly around communists or bear the consequences.  Fifteen years later, I landed on communist soil.  The circumstances of that adventure are for another time, but let it suffice to say that when that plane landed in Beijing, for a few brief moments,  I was five again.  The communists were just outside that plane.  I should run.  I should grab raw potatoes and head off over the field so they wouldn't find me and do whatever communists do to little girls.  And for a brief moment before my rational mind returned, I almost ...wet my pants.

Oh, and Happy Happy Earth Day!

Up in the Night

I know it will delight some of you out there that I'm not sleeping. I know who you are, and I forgive your delight in my insomnia. It was a bad combination of stereo snorers, an immovable canine lump stategically placed, an overly efficient comforter, the new glow of my Ipad charger/alarm clock, and an unusually active mind. I do prefer to sleep, but hey, why fight it? Actually writing the blog title reminded me of something I attribute to my brother--Up in the night--he used that to describe someone who is a few screws loose, not typing with all the keys, a bubble short of plumb, not playing with a complete deck. All of which I guess describe me during 90% of my waking hours. I headed on over to catch up on some blogs. Jana Riess keeps cropping up in blogposts and Goodreads. Interesting. She's a name I hadn't thought of for awhile. In case you don't know her, Jana is the author of a book I'm currently reading, Flunking Sainthood. She has a bachelor's from Wellesley (where my friend Anna introduced her to the church), a master's from Princeton, and a PhD from Columbia. Her area of expertise is religion--lots and lots of degrees and time spent writing about religion. Plus she's funny. I met Jana in our ward in Princeton when she came back to visit once. We had a delightful conversation about Mormon kitsch--one of her pet subjects as well. Head on over  for the fun. http://www.missnemesis.blogspot.com/  Alright, who's been messing with Blogspot?  This probably won't even publish.  My HTML cannot be accepted.  Tag is not closed.  Huh???  I shall cowboy on and hope this gets resolved.

 Paco brought home a dandy composter from Logan today as well as a deluxe chicken feeder.  He's going into warp speed to get the fencing and gates up so the Philosophers can return (they've been wintering down the road)--probably just in time for shearing!  I've missed them.  Rumor has it that someone's preggers...I think alpaca gestation is probably similar to llama gestation in which case very possibly we could have a baby alpaca mid Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Lake winter.  Perhaps the canine lump on our bed will have to share sleeping room with a camelid lump...We wouldn't be the first to cohabit with baby animals born out of season.  I'm just saying...it could happen.  Probably not so much the bed thing but possibly a box by the fire.

In other news--there really isn't any that I can mention here.  I don't feel inclined to rant this morning.  I don't have any recipes to post.  I really have no business taking up the webspace here.

I need advice about cheating in school.  It's a constant fly I keep trying to alleviate, but it just keeps buzzing around my ear.  Being  honest is such "entry level human behavior" to me that I almost have no place for it on my radar screen, so when it DOES show up (which believe me is frequently), I'm taken aback.  Sometimes I catch it personally, and then I run the risk of going nuclear right then and there.  More often I get little notes on my desk, or a student pulls me aside and informs me.  Today I got one of each, so I DO need to act.  Any long term solution suggestions?

I won 3 firestarters in the recent library contest.  I read about 20 books this year from January 15-ish to April 15.   What I won't do for a ticket in a glass jar and the anticipation of possibly winning something.  Last year I read 40 and won a great large bottle of lotion.  The year before I won an apron and a Farkle game.  High stakes here.

I need to "get up" in about 50 minutes.  Ugh.  Aargh. 

I'm thinking of starting another blog somewhere--maybe focus on one particular subject.  Branching out.  Maybe assuming another identity and toying with people.

I supported a mother today as we met with school administrators to discuss her son.  Why does a parent with a child at the top of the game need to fight for services while a parent with a handicapped child is protected under a mile of government mandates?  The great state of Idaho decided a decade ago not to fund gifted programs.  Come again?????????  And they obtained the joints they were smoking at the time from whom???

Here's something purely charming that I encountered in an autobiography today.  I wish you could meet this kid--I've taken a liking to him.  Enjoy.

"If you didn't know, my family is a nuclear bomb waiting to blow. We mostly try to avoid family outings together. We just get in fights--a little fist action, and it gets out of hand. We have to get the guns out. Outings would only end in a riot. At minimum, a fight will usually end with a black eye. Sometimes we end up crouched over someone in the ER. In fact, we have been to the ER so much the hospital was going to name a wing after our family As I said before, my family shouldn't have family get-togethers unless there's enough food to occupy us so we don't notice each other. So, we don't have family traditions. If we did it would just mean more hospital bills." (I love the part about being crouched over someone in the ER!)

Check out hugelcultur!  Gardening is such an adventure, isn't it?  We're putting an 80 foot one of these across the front of our house!!!!

Detecting some light out there.  I'm scared to death to push publish.  This may all disappear.  Cross your fingers.  Here goes!!!!

Perfect

A book clerk at the Tattered Cover in Denver placed this book in my hand about 6 years ago. I never take book recommendations lightly. In fact I'm about 100% on reading (or at least purchasing for a future time) what people tell me to. This book rose quickly quickly to probably my top 5--maybe 3. Furthermore, sometimes whenever I discover someone else who has read it, we become instantly connected. One of my former students and I had a poignant conversation about it. I approached a stranger in an airport waiting area who was engrossed in it, and we had a phenomenol conversation. My son took it into a women's prison for a book group. Those women finished it ahead of schedule and clamored for more. My unbridled enthusiam for this book has not met with unqualified success, I regret to inform you. One friend said she couldn't follow it. Another said it was "all over the place." Those comments left me speechless. Currently my copy of this book is on loan with a young friend. I'm going to go get it today.

I watched the movie this morning. It was perfect. Just perfect. I can't even post this picture without tearing up. The spirit of this movie will most likely accompany me during this entire day. Perhaps it will never leave me. I can hope. But I actually have no adequate words to write about it, except that sometimes I feel and witness people surging towards God--in a very powerful personal way.

A Few Days Late on This Anniversary

My son's reflections from Facebook on invading Baghdad with his fellow Marines.

Forgetting, Remembering, Hoping.
By Taggart Giles

... I have a horrible memory. I forget birthdays, names, places, work stuff, and pretty much everything else. Writing things down helps, but then I forget that I wrote it down. However, I won't, or better yet can't, forget ANYTHING from April 8, 2003.

I can't forget the sounds. I can’t forget the smells. I can’t forget the sweat, the blood, the fear, the hate, the pile of spent ammo casings, the cars racing toward me trying to end my life. I can't forget what it feels like to shoot at someone, or to be shot at. I can’t forget knowing that I would happily take a bullet for one or all of my brothers, and knowing that they would do the same. I can't forget what an RPG looks like flying past my head, or the relief I felt when it missed. I can't forget wondering who was going to make it out alive and who we would have to mourn over. I can't forget running out of food or water or ammo. I can't forget thinking that this was only one day, and wondering how many days were going to be like this. I can't forget the bullets impacting the cement just a few feet in front of us, hitting the seemingly invisible barrier and unable to penetrate. I can’t forget the memories of April 8, 2003.

I can't forget the love I had for my brothers; the heroes to my right and to my left; the clear mind; the adrenalin racing through my body. I can't forget how I had remembered every bit of training from the previous 6 years, or that EVERY other Marine did as well. I can't forget the pride I felt seeing my fireteam perform flawlessly under the worst conditions imaginable. I can't forget looking into the souls of every Marine of Fox Company, and understanding why it looked like we all just aged 10 years almost instantly.

9 years it's been; and somehow my memories become more vivid every day, like a movie you've seen thousands of times, being able to recite the lines and predict the next sequence of events as it plays on. I remember the flight home to the U.S.A. I remember coming home to a foreign land; one with strange sights and sounds and people; a place where I felt like a stranger. I remember wanting to leave this place and go back with my brothers, where I could carry my loaded rifle with me, and sleep on the floor of vacant buildings, and not worry about school, work, friends, bills, politics, religion......life.

I remember my brothers. I remember the pain that they went through and continue to go through, though the bullets have stopped. I remember reading about them in the paper and seeing them on TV. I remember each of us going our separate way; getting new jobs, graduating from school, getting married; getting divorced; getting arrested. I remember moving away and losing contact with most of them. I remember craving their friendship, their companionship, their understanding. I remember the pain that I feel knowing that my brothers are suffering silently, and that I would give anything for the pain they feel to go away.

I hope that the changes I have gone through since April 8, 2012 are not permanent, and I will someday fade back to the old Taggart…someday. I hope my brothers can find peace in this life. I hope this movie stops playing someday, and I forget the words. I hope that we can all stay in touch. I hope my brothers can come to me for support, and that I will go to them. I hope that this is a priority for us. I hope that, though we are taking different paths through life, that they will remember me, and I will remember them. I hope we don’t lose another brother. I hope that we can be forgiven for our actions on April 8, 2003. I hope that we stop feeling guilty. I hope we can be happy. I hope we can forget. I hope we never forget.

-Taggart Giles